


A Strange Meeting

by English_Tea_Roses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, pizza and no regrets, see this is what i'm doing when i'm not writing angst, sort of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:01:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/English_Tea_Roses/pseuds/English_Tea_Roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is sick. So is Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Strange Meeting

“Oh, _Sherlock_ , whatever took you so long? I was beginning to worry,” the deep, unfamiliar voice trembled from the freezing, damp old factory’s rafters. Sherlock Holmes stood alone on the cement floor below, all rusted machinery cloaked in darkness at the edges of the cavernous room. The pistol that he had taken from John’s bureau was clutched in his right hand, concealed in the folds of his night-colored overcoat. Breaking into John and Mary’s flat had been almost comically easy, they needed to invest in some type of alarm system. He hoped this meeting would end quickly; as thrilling as this case had been, the solving of it had caused Sherlock to contract an irritating illness. John was always telling him that he needed more food, more sleep, more time in warm and dry places, and it would seem that John was right as usual. He wished that John was by his side. He was a far better marksman, could see better in the dark from his many years of night work in the Afghanistan desert, and could at least tell Sherlock how to stop shaking for long enough to get this meeting over with. But after the fiasco that was their last meeting, his opponent had made it clear that if Sherlock showed up with John again, his friend would be shot dead before he could even blink.

“S-still not using your own voice, Jim? I thought we’d moved past your little games,” Sherlock called out, the weak tremor in his baritone betraying him. Damn it, was it too much to ask for a satisfying solution? If James Moriarty escaped yet again because Sherlock’s _stupid body_ was too sick to fight, he would never forgive himself. His brother might even decide that some of Sherlock’s more illicit activities were due to be shown to Scotland Yard, which would drive his detective career into the sewer and might warrant imprisonment. He evaded prosecution for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen by the sheer luck of Jim Moriarty’s return; if he allowed him to escape, the might of the British Government would come down hard on his head and even call into question whether or not he and Jim were in cahoots. Simply put, his entire lifestyle was riding on eventually capturing Moriarty and forcing him into prison. Mycroft was working undercover with governments and police forces all over Europe in order to gather unquestionable evidence that Jim deserved a life of solitary imprisonment without parole if not the death penalty. Sherlock, as much as he tried to see their side of things, found that he was going to actually miss the dangerous, exciting mind challenges that Jim set for him. First, though, he needed to capture him.

“You sound scared, Sherlock. Have you left the watchdog at home? How sweet of you,” the same deep voice said. Sherlock ignored the sharp pains in his chest and deduced that the voice belonged to a heavyset man who was a chain smoker from Blackpool, perhaps in his mid-forty’s. The man didn’t stand a chance against Jim’s squad of highly trained, silent kidnappers and assassins. Sherlock guessed that he had stepped out for a smoke and never stepped back in again.

“Jim, enough. Do not presume that I am stupid, use your own voice and let your stolen one go,” Sherlock shot back. He had no patience for witty banter that night as his lungs burned with every sentence he spoke.

“But where’s the fun in that? I thought you liked this game,” the victim’s voice said. As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock _did_ like Jim’s games. He never told anyone, not even John. Ordinary people couldn’t understand him at his best, so his worst he kept locked away where no one but himself could see it. Jim saw it, though. Jim saw everything about Sherlock.

“Six people are dead, three of them children. I’m guessing your voice is Lucky Number Seven?” Sherlock asked. The kidnapped man let loose a guttural scream which was cut off by a loud thump and the sound of a body sliding to the floor. Sherlock knew that the man wasn’t dead, but he’d wake up with one hell of a migraine.

“Now why did you have to go and d-do that?” Jim’s own lilting voice stuttered out, “You s-scared him.” A huge round of coughing and wheezing came from the speaker taped to the rafters; Sherlock had guessed that Jim was hiding in one of the smaller rooms off of the main floor. He crept across the floor, listening rom where the coughing was coming from. His head had gone fuzzy to the point where he lost his way in the dark room and was forced to sit down where he stood, too dizzy and confused to go any farther. He took comfort in the fact that Jim sounded as sick as he was.

“You sound t-terrible, Jim,” Sherlock said. He shivered in his wool coat, feeling like a small child again. He _hated_ being sick, the way it dulled his mind and caused his body to collapse in on itself.

“Not as t-terrible as _you_ \- ah, fuck it. This isn’t f-fun anymore,” Jim sighed. The lights flickered on and Sherlock could see that he was barely five feet from where he had started. He noted that his suspicions were correct, there _was_ a speaker and a long cord in the rafters.  Jim Moriarty walked out from a room a few paces away, wrapped in a designer parka that dwarfed his already slight frame. His coffee-colored eyes peeked out from under a giant wooly hat; the sight would have been hilarious had Sherlock not been miserable himself and so envious of the added warmth. He sat down next to Sherlock on the cement floor.

“Why?” Sherlock asked. That was all he could manage in his daze. Now that he was speaking at a lower volume, his stutter was gone.

“Look, you’re not at your best tonight and sadly, neither am I.  I don’t want to play unless you’re up for it. Sebastian, take Mr. Jones and toss him outside of where we picked him up; we’ll pick someone else in a week or so,” Jim said, waving the handsome man with a soldier’s bearing away. Sebastian Moran tossed the portly man over his shoulder like he was a rag doll and stomped out of the factory.

“Are you kidding? Six people, Jim, for fun?”

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed, or have you gone soft on me, love?” Jim mockingly caressed Sherlock’s cheek with one mitten-clad hand. Sherlock brushed him off like he would a bee, as gently as possible. He did have to admit that Jim always made sure that he was having fun on his cases; he’d missed him in the year that he was back and Jim was thought dead.

“You don’t have to abduct anyone else. I’ve solved the case, knew it was you from the beginning. You have a certain… _flair_ to your crimes,” Sherlock said. He didn’t, in his heart, care whether Jim took someone else or not. It seemed like the right thing to be concerned about, something a normal person would be concerned about.

“Why, Sherlock, that almost sounded like flattery!” Jim winced as his attempt to grin jabbed at his ribs.

“Yeah, it kind of was,” Sherlock admitted. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Jim licked is lips.

“Pizza?” he asked. Sherlock gaped at him.

“Um, what?”

“Pizza. I was going to order one, care to join me?” Jim asked, just as casual as can be. Eat pizza with his supposed mortal enemy like they were long-lost friends? Who did that? But Sherlock _was_ famished and Jim wasn’t bad company, so why not, if Jim was paying?

“Okay.” Jim stood up and dug his phone out of his coat pocket. After a few hurried words into the pone, he hung up and sat back down.

“Should be here in five or so minutes. I got olives, hope you don’t mind. And if you do mind, suck it up or don’t eat.” Sherlock happened to love olives.

“So,” Sherlock said, fumbling for small-talk topics, “what have you been up to these past three years?” Was that an okay question to ask? What _did_ one ask their ‘mortal enemy’ as they sat in a freezing factory, waiting to share a pizza? It wasn’t as if there was a guidebook for this.

“I can’t tell you that, or has your idiot brother given up his government dreams? I know you’re forced to report back to him whenever I do something _naugty_ ,” Jim said with emphasis on the last word. After nearly five years of knowing him, Sherlock still couldn’t tell if Jim was genuinely flirting or just trying to make him uncomfortable. Probably the latter.

“What Mycroft doesn’t know won’t kill him.” Sherlock had no intention of letting Mycroft know that he had even gone to meet Jim that night, much less dined with him and gone their separate ways.

“Not really with the angels, then? Knew it. Well, I you must know, I’ve been in South America.” South America? He was so pale that he must have never left his house for the time he was there.

“Doing?” Sherlock let the question linger.

“Oh, this and that. A drug cartel here, a weapons smuggler there. Nothing too exciting, but I needed to build a few contacts on that continent. You never know when you’ll need an AK-47 or a lot of money or spies,” Jim tossed off. There was a loud knocking at the factory door. Jim stood again and went to answer it. He paid the deliveryman, took the pizza, and sat back down.

“That took three years?” Sherlock asked, taking a hot and delicious slice. Jim looked offended.

“Well, _somebody_ was ripping apart my contact web in Europe and Asia until I had nobody alive but Sebastian and myself,” Jim said, “I was forced to get creative. Dealing with Americans and Canadians is a nightmare, but their southern friends were _very_ receptive to money and power.” Sherlock made a mental note to tell that to Mycroft in the event that he was sent to prison on murder charges. That would buy Sherlock’s freedom for a good long while.

“That slave ring in Japan was a tough one to crack, I have to admit. I almost lost both of my legs to one of their landmines,” Sherlock said. Jim seemed pleased with this.

“What about this last year, Sherlock? My little birds tell me you came back a year ago and have hardly been seen with your dog since,” Jim said, taking a bite.

“My dog-? Oh, you mean _John_. He’s married now, but you already know that,” Sherlock said. He doubted there was anything that Jim didn’t know.

“Very moving best man speech, I hear. That wife of his, though,” Jim said, “she’s something else entirely.”

“Not one of yours, then?”

“Wish she had been. Brilliant shot, don’t know how John managed to attract her,” Jim said, holding up a finger to Sherlock’s protests, “Don’t start, you know that people like John and people like Mary don’t tend to get on well. People like you and I _need_ people like John or Seb to admire us, but Mary could do so much better.”

“Boss, you’ve been called away,” a gruff Scottish voice came from behind them. Moran was back and didn’t look too happy at being thought of as nothing more than an admirer. Jim helped Sherlock to his feet and took the pizza box.

“Until next time, Sherlock,” Jim said, “Same time, same place in a week or so? I’ll be in touch.” Without waiting for a goodbye, Jim left Sherlock alone in the factory. When he exited the doors, the street was as deserted as it had been when he had arrived a scant hour before. He hobbled to the main road and hailed a cab. Once inside, he slumped against the glass and watched the lights change as he was taken back to Baker Street.

“Until next time, Jim.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is silly, I know.
> 
> -Silas


End file.
